


Reason #38: Because he's from one of the countries you haven't had sex with

by mouseymightymarvellous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baby's first smut, Bucky Barnes on the run, Darcy's gonna tase someone if she doesn't get some alcohol stat, F/M, Fuckyeahdarcylewis 50 Reasons Challenge, Jane Foster is a Long Suffering Bro, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Sex Positive Darcy Lewis, Smash the Patriarchy, women in STEM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouseymightymarvellous/pseuds/mouseymightymarvellous
Summary: Darcy just wants to drink her vodka in peace and not have to deal with another shitty science-bro who is going to measure her worth by the lack of letters after her name and lack of a cock between her legs. But, she's not exactly built for brooding, and Tall, Dark and Dangerous sitting next to her has a laugh that rasps along her skin like velvet and a horrifyingly hot interest in the effects of Communism on European architecture.For the old (but new to me) 50 Reasons To Have Sex challenge, hosted by f*ckyeahdarcylewis on tumblr.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick one-shot, and then I kept getting distracted, because how do you smut? I have no idea if this is sexy (I’m actually pretty sure the smutty bits are just awkward, but whatevs, I tried), I kept getting caught up on feels. Thanks to f*ckyeahdarcylewis and the denizens of Darcyland at large, you are all creative and inspiring and so full of love.

“Oh my God!” Darcy yells at him. “You _lied_ to me!”

“Wait. What?” Jane’s gaze darts between her angry best friend and the recently reformed Winter Soldier cringing away from where said best friend is repeatedly stabbing her finger into his chest. “Um, Darcy?”

“What?” Darcy snaps, not bothering to actually look at Jane and ruin the terrifying scowl she’s got going on.

“Maybe, just maybe, you might not want to poke the deadly assassin with the murder arm?”

“Oh no,” Darcy seethes. “He deserves it. For _lying to me_!”

Jane has no idea how she ended up here, watching her no-longer-an-intern scream at a man only recently recovered from being the world’s most dangerous - and brainwashed - weapon. Today was supposed to be a nice productive day: Darcy had finally settled into Stark Industries after taking the month off to visit friends and missing the initial move back to the States from Britain, the results from the lab in Canada that they had been waiting on to advance their latest research had arrived that morning, and Thor had brought them coffee and delicious pastries from the new cafe they’re already addicted to. Instead, Bucky Barnes had wandered into her lab with a new piece of equipment from Stark, and Jane ended up in the middle of whatever the hell is currently going on.

“I can explain?” Barnes offers, his shoulders up at his ears.

“YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE ROMANIAN! NOW I HAVE TO GO BACK AND UNCROSS THAT OFF MY LIST!”

“Wait, what?” Barnes interrupts, “You aren’t angry that I didn’t tell you I was the Winter Soldier when we slept together?”

“You _slept_ together?” Jane demands. “Darcy, when? What? WHY DID YOU SLEEP WITH THE WINTER SOLDIER? Do you know how dangerous that was?”

“Ok,” Darcy says, finally pulling her gaze away from the man cowering in front of her to scowl at Jane. “A, you’re not my mom, you can’t ground me for having slept with a hot dude. Two, you’re practically married to an alien superhero who is as old as balls and who was once worshiped as a god, no judging from you. And, anyways, we didn’t sleep together -“

Jane sighs in relief.

“- we fucked in a bathroom.”

**

Darcy is exhausted, but her body clock is shot from the sheer number of time zones they’ve managed to cover in the past few weeks, and she’s just going to mess it up further if she tries to go to bed while it’s still light out. The past two years have been a whirlwind of country hopping as they bounce back and forth between London, various SI and university labs eager to host Jane, and too many cities and conferences to count. 

Darcy had never expected when she signed on to an astrophysics internship in the middle of nowhere New Mexico to get her six science credits that her passport would end up getting as much of a workout as it has.

This weekend’s city is Bucharest, and Darcy is more than happy to return to milder climes after their extended stay in Chile, a quick visit at a lab in Beijing doing some interesting computer modelling, and the practically momentary stopover in London to do some laundry.

Yeah, Darcy is exhausted.

Jane is Jane, however, and runs on caffeine and SCIENCE!. She’s somehow still ensconced in backroom meetings at the physics conference they’re in town for, happy as a clam; the good doctor had absently waved Darcy off when she’d started to flag from sitting on the side of yet another conversation about complex math and esoteric theories that she couldn’t follow. Darcy took the initiative to ditch the hotel that the conference is being held at in favour of a quiet bar far from any science. She wants to be left alone and not have to fake a smile at yet another man who felt he had the right to leer at her boobs and then summarily ignore her upon realizing she doesn’t have a doctorate, let alone a science degree.

She’s considering writing love letters to each and every woman in STEM for their bravery and fortitude in sticking it out in a field that is full of as much sexist bullshit as Darcy’s had thrown at her the past two days. She’s been dismissed, ogled and outright insulted more times than she can count, and she is sick and tired of having her worth measured by the lack of letters after her name and lack of a cock between her legs.

Fuck dudes, and not in the fun way.

She’s hoping that her general aura of malcontent will keep anyone from trying their hand at picking her up. Darcy is not in the mood. She just wants to sit at this bar and drink awesome vodka and wash away the memory of a hundred plus micro-aggressions.

Jane, at least, is finally getting the recognition she deserves for her brilliance. The Greenwich Incident had the happy byproduct of both saving the Nine Realms and proving a bunch of theories that had previously made Jane the laughing stock of the astrophysics community. Of course, if SHIELD hadn’t swooped down and made any and all readings related to Thor’s arrival on Midgard - and, later, the Chitauri Invasion - super top-secret classified, Jane would have had proof a hell of a lot sooner. Regardless, Jane is now pleased as punch to fly around the world and shove her research in the faces of everyone who had dismissed her for her gender and her age and her willingness to push the boundaries of science.

Of course, she still has to put up with sexist bullshit, but Jane is made of steel and star-fire, and her theories are honed wicked sharp. She’s more than happy to let her critics cut themselves to pieces on them.

If Darcy, however, has to put up with one more derisive comment about social sciences, she is going show just how soft her science is and bring her taser into play.

Opting to remove herself from the entire shitshow for the evening was probably the mature response. Darcy can’t stand Jane’s Disappointed-In-You face, which is, unfortunately, an all too common expression on the scientist’s face in response to Darcy’s shenanigans, but most especially when Darcy gets trigger happy. (Look, Jane, she’s only done it three times. Ok, four, but that last time it was actually Hydra, so Darcy stands by the decision that tasering the goon was the appropriate response to the situation.) Thor, at least, would probably get a kick out of another story about “the Lady Darcy and her most ingenious lightning device”, provided he didn’t decide afterwards that he needed to defend her honour and subsequently tracked down every person who had ever wronged her. That would just get messy, and then Maria Hill the Terrifying and Captain Fucking America would sit her down and lecture her while wearing their Disappointed-In-You faces for leading an Avenger astray, and Darcy just isn’t equipped to handle that much frowning.

Yeah, escaping to a dingy bar with good alcohol where she can forget the day is probably for the best.

The Universe is apparently awarding her for her mature and responsible decision-making, as the dark cloud of rage over her head is actually keeping away any would-be suitors and any suggestions that she should smile. A blessed reprieve.

The bartender keeps her stocked in mid-shelf vodka; in Eastern Europe and with her current Stark Industries salary, it’s hell of a lot better than anything she drank as a broke college student or as an even more broke astrophysics intern. He isn’t chatty either, perfectly content to leave her to play mindless apps on her phone and to scroll through her favourite news sites.

An hour and then most of another pass by in a pleasant blur. Darcy feels buoyed by the vodka, her black mood lightening as two drinks turn into three. She orders something involving fried potatoes that she has no idea how to pronounce and sets down her phone to do some people watching while the food soaks up some of the alcohol. She isn’t drunk, not yet, but she’s hungry, and she wants to be able to find her way back to the hotel after another drink without getting lost or running into something.

The bar has filled up around her as night has fallen. It is by no means a large crowd, and the patrons skew overwhelmingly towards old dudes, but there is enough going on to keep Darcy amused as she eats. Darcy’s Russian is old and rusted, and her Romanian non-existent, so she’s mostly relying on body language and volume to interpret the various conversations happening around her. She amuses herself by making up stories and pouts when she goes to share some of her more outlandish theories with Jane, only to remember that the other woman isn’t there.

Apparently, she only has a limited tolerance for brooding. Who knew?

The seats to either side of her are slowly occupied, and Darcy gets polite nods and curious glances in equal measure, but their new occupants are happy to leave her alone, much to her relief. Darcy usually enjoys chatting with strangers, but she doesn’t think she has the energy for that today.

She briefly checks out the guy seated to her left, who has been nursing the same glass of whiskey for the past half hour. The bartender had poured it as he walked in, so Darcy is assuming he’s a regular, but he hasn’t bothered greeting anyone the way most of the rest of the room has. From what she catches of him out of the corner of her eye, he’s dark and broad and handsome in a way that Darcy doesn’t usually go for, but he pulls it off with the leather jacket and the black pants and the general aura of dangerous competence he’s got going on. Suddenly, he tenses and his head swings up, his shaggy hair falling out of his face and wow, those are some blue, blue eyes staring right at her. Darcy meeps and swings her gaze away, pretending that she wasn’t staring.

She sees the sudden violence in his frame abate from the corner of her eye, and his hand falls back onto the bar. And then a dark chuckle rasps across her skin as he laughs at the blush that must be on her face.

Darcy pretends that she doesn’t notice, and goes back to people watching, attention firmly on the right side of the room.

Someone calls to the bartender to turn the television on and soon enough some sporting event or another is blaring. It’s probably soccer, but Darcy has never claimed to know anything about sports, and the only thing she knows for certain is that it’s being played on a field. That said, she overcomes her lingering embarrassment and starts to get overly invested in what is obviously the local favourite, cheering along with the room whenever a guy in red and white does something that she assumes is impressive.

When one of the black players smashes violently into a red and white player, the room boos and yells abuse at the screen. Darcy, surprising herself, finds herself screaming along when the ref does nothing. “C’mon! What the hell was that? What are you, blind?!”

That dark, decadent chuckle scrapes up her spine again.

Darcy can’t help herself, her gaze swinging back to Dangerous on her left. She narrows her eyes at him. “What?” she demands.

He shakes his head, amused.

“Right,” she scowls, and turns her attention back to the game.

She hears him huff quietly. “Apologies,” he says, a rough edge to his English that speaks to a Slavic first language. “I had not meant to offend.”

Darcy scowls at him a bit longer, but he looks contrite: his shoulders a bit raised and his mouth rueful. She relents. “Apology accepted.”

“You are American?” he asks. His tongue sweeps along the front of his teeth.

“Yeah.”

He nods, drops his gaze back to his drink. His shoulders are still tensed, as if he’s still expecting some kind of further displeasure from her.

“Naw, man,” Darcy tells him. “Seriously, we’re cool.”

He peeks up at her from behind his bangs. Darcy does not smile when the tension finally drops from his frame.

“So, I know I was cheering and all, but can you tell me what the hell is actually going on?” she asks, gesturing at the tv.

Dangerous laughs, the rough slide of his earlier laughter lightening into something more mirthful (and less dangerous to her sanity), and nods.

Darcy is quickly informed that it’s _football_ , not soccer, and that the red and white team is, in fact, the local team. That segues into talking about local attractions, Dangerous getting fairly animated about some of Bucharest’s architecture and the recent attempts at restoring and preserving what still remains after the destruction of many of the older buildings during the Communist era. Darcy brings up some of her favourite cities for architecture, and they swap stories about travelling through Europe.

“Shit!” Darcy exclaims suddenly, interrupting Dangerous as he waxes on poetically about a very specific French church he once spent the night in.

Dangerous starts, hand going to his waistband.

Darcy blinks at the sudden movement, but decides not to ask. Occasionally sharing Avengers’ Tower with a decent remnant of SHIELD and living periodically with Asgardians has left her pretty inured to weirdly violent startle reflexes. “I haven’t even asked you your name!”

He stares at her and raises an eloquent eyebrow.

“We’ve been talking, for like, almost an hour, dude, and I don’t even know your name, but I do know that you’re probably too into Art Nouveau, which is a bit too personal when I’m still calling you ‘Dangerous’ in my head.”

“Dangerous?” he asks, proving her point with the sly, pleased smile that slides onto his face, stealing her breath.

“So sue me.” Darcy makes a face. “I’m a sucker for leather.”

He stares at her, the smile slowly fading off his face until he looks pensive. His brow comes down into something that is almost a frown of confusion, and he looks away. She lets him be. She’s gotten the impression as they’ve talked that Dangerous has a pretty ugly past, the way he speaks around certain subjects and cases the bar and reaches for a weapon when startled. And she figures there’s a story to go with the leather gloves still on his hands. Darcy’s happy to chat with him and then move along; she doesn’t have the time for anyone else’s crazy shit when she already has all the aliens and wacky science that she can handle.

“Yasha,” he gifts her with finally, gaze swinging back up to catch her reaction.

Darcy lets her best molasses-slow smirk drip onto her mouth, the one that she knows promises half-bitten moans and smeared lipstick and bruises pressed into skin. Dangerous’ pupils dilate as he stares at her lips. “Well, hullo there Yasha. I’m Darcy.”

The night devolves quickly after that.

Darcy does her best to resist the pull of that dark rasp of laughter she has to really work to coax out of him, the strangely shy smile he gets when she flirts a little bit too hard, the impossible breadth of him in the seat next to her, the heat and spice that crawls under her skin as they lean closer and closer.

They drink and chatter and draw together into tighter orbit as the bartender keeps them supplied in vodka and whiskey. Darcy registers vaguely that the red and white team wins the soccer match - at least, she guesses from the triumphant cheering that erupts - and the bar settles in to celebrate the win.

Darcy ends up surprising Yasha with the handful of vicious Russian curses she’d stolen from her баба growing up when she knocks over her glass with a particularly vigorous hand gesture.

“You speak Russian?” he asks her.

“Я немного говорю по-русски,” she laughs, “but I’ve forgotten most of it. My баба spoke it around the house when I was growing up. I can mostly only yell about doing chores and pull out some swear words I was never supposed to repeat.”

“Your accent is good. That almost sounded native.”

“Really?” Darcy perks up. She’d regretted never really trying to learn to speak Russian while her grandmother was still alive, and it’s been hard to find the time or opportunity to practice in the long years since. It had been just another thing that made her weird as a child - the harsh consonants and strange smells of her home - but she had missed it when it was gone and all she had was yet another miserably featureless foster home.

“да,” Yasha smiles at her, honest and bright. “Your grandmother?”

“Oh yeah, and did that woman have a mouth on her! She and my дéдa fled in the mid-sixties to the States, and she raised me on potatoes, beets, and stories about the fucking cold.”

“It is cold,” Yasha nods sagely.

“You’ve been?” Darcy asks. Moscow is on her list of cities to see, for the beauty and her heritage as much as the political scientist in her.

Yasha’s eyes cloud over with something like frost. “A long time ago.” His voice is bleak like the tundra, and Darcy suppresses the impulse to shiver.

“Where are you from, then?” She tries to redirect the conversation back to something lighter. “You know I’m American, what about yourself?”

Those blue, blue eyes don’t unthaw completely, but Yasha’s voice loses that edge of ice. “Romanian, actually, although I left a long while ago. Further East, near the Black Sea.” He shrugs off the memory, as if it fits badly. “Never expected to be back.”

The last bit is quiet enough that Darcy doesn’t think it was meant for her.

She struggles again to bring the conversation back to the easy place it was before, where they were all outrageous stories and intent eyes. She’s much more equipped to handle flirtation than real emotion. That’s never been something she was good at. She learned Russian stoicism at her баба’s knees and then she learned to paste on bright smiles to hide behind in foster care. It’s easier to do that again, to avoid whatever darkness lays in Yasha’s past, than it is to confront the issue.

The only thing Darcy wants from this evening is to forget her day. She doesn’t have it in her to leave this bar carrying the raw pieces of some stranger’s past, no matter how much she likes his face and his laughter.

“Romanian, huh?” she asks lightly, glossing over the ice and misery lingering behind his eyes. “You know, I’ve never fucked anyone Romanian before.”

Yasha’s head swings up, his mouth dropping slightly open and his eyes going wide. The shock wipes any hint of tundra from his face. Success.

“C’mon,” Darcy cajoles, “that’s pretty much where we’ve been going for the past two hours.”

Darcy hadn’t planned on sleeping with anyone at this bar - in fact, she’d planned on avoiding it - but she’ll make an exception for Yasha and the way his mouth curves when he hides a grin.

And, after all, he’s Romanian, and she’s never fucked anyone Romanian before.

(Darcy’s first boyfriend is an Australian exchange student and the first girl she kisses had moved to Idaho from Sweden. Then in college there’d been a succession of international students, and Darcy’s roommate had finally demanded to know what she had against sleeping with Americans. Darcy had claimed that nothing was wrong with her fellow citizens, she totally dated Americans, and then had written out a list of her various relationships and realized that no, she totally didn’t date Americans, what the hell, how did that happen? And then, well, she just decided to roll with it, because her pride was at stake in this argument, dammit.

She hasn’t ever fucked anyone Romanian before. She needs to do it for the sake of the list.

She’s a _completionist_ , ok?)

“We have?” Yasha asks her, as if he hasn’t been flirting pretty outrageously.

Darcy narrows her eyes and leans in so that her breasts press into his arm. “Mhmm,” she murmurs. “So, you game?”

Yasha picks up his drink and slugs it back. Darcy watches his throat bob as he swallows. He sets the empty glass down firmly and spins his stool to face her.

He’s really quite broad when he shifts just so to take up all the space in front of her and all the space in her lungs. “Whatever you want to give me, Куколка, I will happily take.”

And that. Fuck. That was not what Darcy was expecting, but man, is she willing to run with it as far as she can.

“C’mon,” she manages through a suddenly dry mouth, grabbing his right hand and towing him towards the back of the bar. He follows easily, a blistering presence at her back, shielding her from the knowing glances they’re garnering from the other patrons paying enough attention to notice them slink by.

Darcy isn’t really sure where she’s going, she just needs to get him somewhere that other people aren’t so that she can finally taste that whiskey and his laughter on her tongue. Yasha startles her when he opens up a door and spins her inside. She yelps when her back hits a wall and Yasha is suddenly in front of her.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, bringing up a hand to run his thumb along her jawline. The leather catches on her skin, creating a delightful friction. “This ok?”

Darcy takes in the single toilet and the grubby mirror and the intermittent drip from the tap. Then she takes in the broad shouldered man looking at her through his fringe with those blue, blue eyes. His hand is still cupping her face and he is warm and wonderful in front of her. “So ok.”

“Good.” And he drops down into a crouch in front of her.

Darcy’s breath catches in her throat at the sight of this powerfully built man at her feet, all black leather and dark hair and a slash of a grin. She threads her fingers through his bangs and pulls them off his face so that she can see his burning blue eyes more clearly. She feels scorched to the bone, devoured, sublime. Even if the sex is crap from here on out, she’ll be getting off to this image - danger between her legs with the promise of heat in his gaze - for a long time to come.

Slowly, making sure that she’s watching, Yasha pulls the glove off his right hand with his teeth. It takes an eternity for the glove to come off and reveal his long, dextrous fingers and the vulnerable skin at the inside of his wrist. He drops the glove carelessly to the ground and then touches his fingers back to his lips. She can’t look away as he swirls his tongue around the first two digits, only to suck them into that ridiculous mouth of his.

She swallows heavily, and she can feel the flush on her cheeks and down her chest. Yasha’s eyes hold hers as his cheeks hollow.

“Fuck,” she rasps, and she sounds wrecked. He hasn’t even touched her yet, not really, just hovered so close she can feel the scorching heat of him and looked at her with those fucking eyes and that fucking mouth, and she’s already a quivering mess. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he doesn’t touch her soon.

His fingers pop out of his mouth with a slick sound.

Darcy whimpers. This man is going to kill her, and she’s going to enjoy it so, so much.

He grunts and his pupils dilate impossibly further, and Darcy realizes that she’s tugging carelessly at the hair still threaded through her fingers. And _oh_ , oh _fuck_.

“I wanna-” he pauses, frustration dancing over his features before it’s gone. “Can I eat you out?”

He definitely should not sound so shy and unsure when asking that after he’s flayed her to the bone with nothing but the image of his lips wrapped around his fingers, but yes, yes he definitely can. Darcy doesn’t care that they’re in a sketchy bathroom of a broken down bar, not if he’s willing to put that ridiculous, obscene mouth on her. “Yeah,” she gasps, “yeah, please. Oh _fuck_ , anything you want.”

He pinks, pleased, and _fuck, what can she do to get him to look that bashful again?_ , before his grin turns dirty and sly. “Anything?” And he waggles his outrageous eyebrows. Darcy thinks she definitely should not be so turned on by this contradiction of a man.

She licks her lips and drawls, “Y’know, I’m pretty sure the only thing you want to do is get me off. So, yeah, anything.”

And, fuck yes, there’s that blush again, dusting his cheeks a pretty, pretty pink.

She wants to bite him. She wants to pin him to a bed and ride his face until he’s shining and dripping with her. She wants to call him pet names and stroke him and take him apart with a strap-on.

She wants to see if that pretty, pretty blush goes all the way down.

She’s startled out of her lurid daydreams by a tug to the hem of her skirt.

Yasha lifts a brow in question.

“Shit, yeah,” she pants and she hikes her pencil skirt up around her hips, baring her thigh-highs and garter and lacy black underwear. And Darcy is totally going to place an offering at the alter of Our Lady Potts, Patron Saint of Personal Assistants and Office Wear when this is all over, because Yasha _groans_ at the sight. He wraps his hands around her calves and smoothes them up the length of her legs, only stopping to rub his thumbs along the tops of the stockings before tracing patterns on the backs of her thighs with his fingers.

“Fuck,” he manages through gritted teeth, “you were wearing these the whole time, talking about football and architecture and I had no _fucking_ idea.”

“I wasn’t -“ Darcy gasps as he ducks and presses an open mouthed kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other “- wasn’t actually expecting anyone to see them.” And yeah, Darcy isn’t usually super into the alpha-male possessive bullshit, but Yasha grins smugly at this admission, and he's just so goddamned _attractive_. She wants to kiss that grin off his stupid face.

“Wearing them for yourself?” he asks conversationally, fingers going back to their pointed stroking.

“You bet. Assholes can stare at me like they own me, but they have no idea, and they’ll never get to see.”

For a moment, Yasha bares his teeth and his eyes flash, and he turns into something dangerous and wild. His fingers tense around her thighs, almost enough to press bruises into the flesh, before he takes a breath and steadies himself. “‘M I not an asshole, then?”

“Dunno yet. But you don’t talk to my tits, even if they’re spectacular, and you were pretty gracious when you admitted I was right after we argued about Communist era architecture.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing, like Yasha taking the time to talk to her like she’s a real person with actual thoughts and feelings isn’t a big deal after the bullshit she's put up with from men today, this week, her whole life since puberty hit her like a Mack truck at age thirteen. 

Yasha rocks back on his heels a bit. “Doll,” he tells her, frowning, “those are some awfully low standards.”

Darcy smiles at him, and she hopes that there isn’t too much rage in the flash of her teeth. This was supposed to be about a bit of stress relief with a hot Romanian dude, not a challenge to the patriarchy. “Lucky you,” she teases, or tries to.

He goes cold and tense for another moment, somewhere far away, so she pulls on the hair still in her grip. She wants him, this man who laughed at the inanities of sport with her and sketched the angles of cathedrals in the air with his hands. He isn’t just a matter of the least worst of the lot. She likes him, for this brief moment that she gets to steal from the Universe, before they go their separate ways.

She licks her lips. “I want _you_ ,” she tells him, and hopes that he doesn’t hear the vulnerable quiver in her voice.

“You sure?” he asks, gifting her vulnerability back to her. “I’m not exactly a good man, Куколка.”

Darcy considers this man between her legs with tundra in his eyes, who reaches for weapons when startled and holds her rage gently in his palms without flinching. Darcy lets his bangs slide out of her grip, and reaches down to pull him up by the hands. He comes without protest: a sinuous movement from crouching at her feet to boxing her in against the wall. She smiles as she ghosts her hands up his arms and over his shoulders until she can spear her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Then she tugs him gently forward to place a bruising, closed-mouth kiss on that mouth she’s been aching to touch.

He lets her kiss him, and she can feel him holding himself in check as she lingers, and he only sighs a protest when she pulls back enough to speak. “I’m sure.” And then she reels him back in, slicking her tongue over his lower lip to ask for entry, and he opens for her, lets her sweep into his mouth and take all the small, precious sounds he gives up. It’s hard and deep and dirty and perfect. She wants to take days exploring his mouth, the way his breath catches in his throat when she bites down on his lip or scratches along his hairline.

He does taste like whiskey. Whiskey and cinnamon and sunshine.

She wants to just spend days kissing him, but Yasha boosts her up against the wall, hands strong and sure under her thighs, and she gets distracted by the rasp of the denim of his jeans against the inside of her legs and the way his ass feels under her heels.

They devolve into cut off curses and nips along jaw lines and harsh panting in the shell of ears and fumbling fingers. The first stroke of Yasha’s thumb along the drenched lace of her panties is perfect, but the second when he dips under the material is better. He’s good to her, adjusting the way he touches her in response to the volume of her moans, not getting distracted when she tries to pay him back in kind with fingernails dragged across the small of his back under his shirt and jacket and with biting kisses to his throat. Too soon to be less than a bit embarrassing, she’s keening as he pumps his fingers into her, his thumb heavy on her clit, chasing an orgasm.

She comes like that, pressed against a wall with her skirt still around her waist and her panties still on and calloused fingers in her cunt. Yasha holds her as she calms, pressing soft endearments into her skin in Russian. When Darcy gets her breath back, she shifts to catch them with her lips, and words fade into decadent kisses as Yasha sips from her mouth.

They stay wrapped together for an age as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

Eventually, Darcy collects enough of her scattered thoughts to notice the very prominent erection nudging the inside of her thigh. She hasn’t even made a move to get his belt off, but Yasha hasn’t pressed, he’s just gotten her off with his hand and made love to her with his mouth.

Which is sweet and all, but Darcy is looking forward to getting fucked by this man who holds her effortlessly and kisses her like she’s something beautiful.

“Pants. Off,” she manages to gasp, reaching for his buckle.

Yasha seems content to let her fumble gracelessly, so Darcy perseveres until she’s managed to undo his belt and fly, and stick her hands down his pants to grab his cock. He hisses and thrusts into her hand, before stilling himself with an impressive amount of control. Darcy raises an interested eyebrow and strokes, watching his face for a reaction, but he only grits his teeth, the tendons in his neck straining, and doesn’t move.

Interesting.

Darcy rewards him by leaning forward to bite at those tendons, and that gets her a reaction: Yasha snarls, and shifts his hand to flick her clit, and it’s Darcy’s turn to hiss. She pulls her hand away and licks a long strip across her palm, eyes bright and taunting, before reaching back down to rest her hand on his lower abdomen.

“Tease,” he accuses, face dark with hunger and thinly held control.

Darcy grins. “Yeah. A bit.” And then she turns her hand and curls her fingers around the base of his cock. “C’mon,” she demands, “I thought we were gonna fuck?”

“Condom?”

And shit. She wasn’t even thinking- she forgot? Darcy Lewis - proud advocate for safe, sane and consensual sex - _forgot_ about protection? She’s probably going to have to have a well-deserved freak out when this is all over.

“Purse!”

Yasha holds her with one hand as he reaches to grab her bag from where it was flung onto the counter at some point. He’s patient, eyes burning, as she fumbles for her wallet and the condom stashed inside.

“Aha!” Darcy whips out the small foil square and tosses her purse back onto the counter. She offers the condom to Yasha, but he just raises an eyebrow in challenge.

Darcy Lewis is not good at backing down from a challenge.

She wishes there was a sexy way to put a condom on, but navigating the merely unbuttoned jeans and the small space left between their bodies is mostly an exercise in awkward maneuvering. She manages it with a minimum of giggles at the unfortunate angle, and leans back with a triumphant noise when she finally manages to roll the condom down the length of his cock and give a few experimental tugs.

Yasha hisses out another breath, so she counts it as a win.

“You ready?” she asks.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

Darcy just grins, and guides his cock as he pushes into her while he holds her panties to the side.

“Oh!” her head drops back to thunk against the wall, and Yasha buries his face in her neck. He’s mumbling something, but her thoughts are skittering, torn between _yes_ and _full_ and _more_.

“Darcy,” Yasha bites out, “you good?”

“So good! Just, give me a moment.” Yasha holds himself still enough to shatter as she adjusts to the width of him. It’s been a while, what with the bouncing between cities they’ve been doing, and Darcy knows she’s going to be aching pleasantly in the morning. Finally, the sharp pinch of discomfort fades into delicious stretch, and she digs her heels into his ass and her fingers into his back. “Move, please. More.”

Yasha _moves_ , pulling out to the tip only to slide back in with a vicious snap of his hips. He adjusts his grip on her thighs, and when he does it again, he hits something sparking and amazing, and Darcy keens.

She threads her fingers back though his hair and rewards him with gasping little moans every time he manages to hit that perfect spot. Time stretches out, a slow wave of building pleasure as they rock together. English and Russian and Romanian trip over each other, a stream of endearments and encouragements and pleading, and they press words and open-mouthed kisses and gasps into flushed skin.

“Darcy, are you close?”

Darcy’s toes are curling in their shoes and she’s a mess of sweat and desperation. “Please,” is all she can manage.

Yasha’s thumb shifts back to her clit, his callouses catching just right, and he doesn’t stop the snap of his hips and the perfect rhythm of their bodies meeting.

The tight spiral of heat in Darcy’s abdomen coils tighter, and she feels herself teetering on the edge of her orgasm.

“Please. Please, please, please.”

Yasha grunts. “Darcy, you need to come _right_ now. C’mon Куколка, I’ve got you. Let go.” And he presses the lightest of kisses onto her mouth before biting her lip, thumb drawing sloppy circles on her clit, and Darcy shatters.

When she musters enough awareness to think beyond the boundaries of her body, she finds herself pinned to the wall under most of Yasha’s weight, his breath hot and unsteady in the hollow of her collarbones as he softens inside her, her fingernails pressing bloody half-moons into the back of his neck.

“Hey,” she rasps.

“Hey,” Yasha mumbles into her skin.

They stay there for long moments, pressed together and breathing, until finally the awkwardness of their position sinks in, and they slowly disengage. Darcy absolutely doesn’t mourn when he slips out of her, careful of her tender flesh, leaving her empty and aching.

The condom gets tied off and tossed underhand into the garbage, and then Yasha lowers her gingerly down to the ground.

Her legs tremble slightly as they get re-accustomed to holding her weight.

Darcy takes him in: his shirt mostly soaked through under the jacket they apparently forgot to remove and a leather glove still on his left hand, his pants undone, the vivid bruises blooming on his throat, and the strangely soft look on his swollen mouth.

“Um, so.” She’s never really gotten any better at post-hook up etiquette.

Yasha darts forward and drops one last kiss on her lips, chaste and affectionate. “Thank you.”

“No,” Darcy laughs, “thank _you_.”

He smiles, and ghosts a hand along her wild mane of hair. “Be seeing you, Куколка.”

“Be seeing you.”

She turns to righten her clothing and grab her purse, and closes her eyes when she hears the door open and shut behind him. Then she straightens up, and prepares to do the stride of pride out of the bar.

She doesn’t think they’ll ever meet again.

**

Afterwards, when Darcy’s back at the hotel and the evening is washed away, she decides that it wasn’t the best sex of her life, but it was far and beyond the best bar hookup she’s ever had. And she has the feeling that if she could have convinced him to spend a night with her, he’d definitely make top three.

Too bad she’ll never get the chance to find out.

She only got to steal him from the Universe for a moment, after all.

**

“You-“ Jane stumbles. “You did what in a bathroom?”

“We fucked, Jane. It’s ok, you’re an adult, you can say it.”

Barnes chokes, but doesn’t disagree.

“And, _when_ was this again?”

“You remember that big physics conference in Bucharest, what, a year and a half ago?” Darcy asks.

“… Was that the one where Dr Mikhailov tripped on an extension cord going up the stairs to the stage and ended up taking out all of the lighting in the room?”

“No, that was Budapest. Bucharest was when you presented on the data from Chile for the first time. Anyways, I left the hotel to get away from all the science dude-bros before I tased anyone, and ran into Barnes at a bar. And what was up with that?” she turns to Barnes. “You told me your name was Yasha! Apparently you were lying about everything, then!”

Barnes raises an eyebrow at this. “And what, exactly, would you have done if I’d introduced myself as Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier?”

Darcy pauses, mouth open to argue, and then closes it. She pouts.

“Yeah,” Barnes laughs, only mostly bitter, “that’s what I thought.”

Jane winces, and looks around frantically for a way to exit was has suddenly become an extremely uncomfortable conversation.

Darcy flickers between confusion and understanding, before settling on a scowl. “Hey! The hell, Barnes? You think this is about you being the Winter Soldier.”

He stares at her like she’s an idiot. Darcy’s scowl darkens.

“Um, excuse me, but my problem is more that I apparently was unintentionally fucking the guy Captain Fucking America was desperately looking for, and didn’t notice.”

“Oh.”

“Well that, and you _lied_ to me about being Romanian! I need to fix my list now Barnes! Do you know how hard I’ve worked on that list?!”

“List?”

Jane groans. “Seriously, Darcy?”

“What? I’m proud of that list.”

Barnes cocks his head. “Your only problem is that I lied about being Romanian?”

“Yes.” Darcy sniffs primly. “I’ll let the ‘Yasha’ thing slide, since it’s pretty much Russian for James.”

“Would it make it better if I told you that I actually _am_ Romanian?”

“No you aren’t.” “But you’re American!” Darcy and Jane both exclaim.

He shrugs. “Immigrated as a kid. I was born just outside of Constanța.”

“Huh.”

“I don’t think that was in the history books.”

Barnes bares his teeth. “Doesn’t exactly fit with the ultra-conservative narrative that Captain America got coopted for. Can’t have the man wearing the red, white and blue be a scrappy Irish kid and his best friend the child of Romanian farmers; makes it a bit hard to sell the anti-immigrant bullshit they like to peddle.”

“Huh.”

Jane is a bit disturbed by the way Darcy’s posture has shifted from antagonistic to interested at this little critique of the Captain America propaganda machine. She’s looking pretty flustered, and Jane doesn’t want to consider why. Political scientists have weird kinks.

“Do you consider yourself Russian at all, after having spent some time there?”

Jane thinks that’s an incredibly sanitized way of putting Barnes’ time as a victim of Russian experiments in brainwashing. But it’s Darcy, so.

“Have you crossed Russian off your list?” Barnes asks, voice low and dark and rasping.

“I haven’t,” Darcy says airily.

“Well then, I just do happen to consider myself a Russian assassin.”

Jane starts backing slowly out of the lab. Neither seems to notice or care.

“привет, солда́т,” Darcy purrs. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Jane doesn’t stick around to figure out if it’s a gun or a knife or anything else. She just hopes that whatever they get up to, her lab is still intact when they’re done.

(“I’m pretty sure that I promised to go down on you and never delivered.”

“Do you always come through on your promises?”

“Well, _someone_ does.”)

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian is cobbled together from wordreference.com, so apologies to anyone who actually speaks Russian for what is probably painful to witness. Translations are available (hopefully) as mouse over text.


End file.
